


Pas de deux

by queenmab_scherzo



Series: Symphony of a Thousand [4]
Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Angry Sex, First Fight, M/M, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:26:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab_scherzo/pseuds/queenmab_scherzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aidan and Dean try to work out each others' boundaries. When things get heated, they both say some things they shouldn't.</p><p>Takes place after "Music is Good to Hear."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for an anonymous tumblr user who wanted to hear about Aidan and Dean's first big fight :)
> 
> if anyone would like to drop me an idea/prompt, you can find me on tumblr [here](http://queenmabscherzo.tumblr.com/).

When Dean announces that they have a twelve-person party, he can actually see the profound terror crystallize in their hostess's eyes. (He doesn't blame her. Jimmy and Russell are in especially loud, rare form. After tonight's concert, they both seem to have a bone to pick with Shostakovich.) Dean takes a step closer in case he has to catch her when she faints, but she maintains her composure with admirable professionalism and has them seated in under half an hour.

They've selected a more upscale restaurant tonight than usual, mostly to celebrate the end of their regular season, and also, by Russell's inebriated logic, "they're all in tuxes anyway." So it's surprising that the restaurant isn't already completely booked, considering it's prime date-time on a Saturday night. It's also surprising that they're willing to push a few tables together for twelve people, but their hostess takes one look at Luke Evans as he loosens his tie and she's suddenly more willing to please. That makes Dean bite back a smile.

Before she escapes, Dean makes a point of catching the hostess by the elbow and whispering a sincere thank you while the others settle at the table.

"Not a problem at all," she says with visible relief.

As he pats her arm and watches her return to her post, he feels a light touch on the small of his back. Aidan's voice drops over his shoulder. "I can take your jacket if you want."

"Oh, sure." Without thinking, Dean shrugs out of his overcoat and Aidan lays it across the back of a chair while Dean sits.

"Deano, pass us the drink menu when you get a chance!" Jimmy calls.

Russell jostles the table as he flops into his seat. "Is it happy hour yet? Or still?"

Dean rolls his eyes and turns to Aidan, who automatically bends closer, slinging an arm over the back of Dean's chair. "Do you think they'd notice if I send them the dessert menu?"

Aidan bursts with laughter. "Do it."

"Hurry up, lovebirds!" Jimmy says.

The rest of the evening is a blur of beer refills, music puns, toasts, curses, and one competition for the most difficult part in Shostakovich's Fifth symphony (which Dean immediately concedes, though Aidan and Adam carry that argument through two cocktails).

At one point Jimmy raises his glass and gets the table's attention.

"Folks, folks. It's December now, so I was wondering. Show of hands." He clears his throat and raises his own hand. "How many of us are playing a [_Nutcracker_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cg1dMpu4v7M)?"

Laughter ripples around the table as several hands go up, including Aidan's, Russell's, Luke's, and two more violinists'.

"Not bad," Jimmy nods with approval. "How many of you are playing more than one _Nutcracker_?"

More laughter. Most hands go down, but Dean glances at Aidan from the corner of his eye. His hand is still up.

"Really?"

"One concert suite, one's actually been staged," Aidan explains with a shrug.

"They don't conflict?"

Aidan shakes his head. "And it's one less than last year."

Dean snorts and turns around again as Jimmy calls for attention.

"Alright, alright, alright. Who's playing a _Messiah_?"

"Oh!" Dean raises his own hand as Aidan's goes down.

"And who's doing both?" Jimmy asks, spreading his arms.

One haggard violinist keeps her hand in the air, and everyone offers their sympathy.

It's that time of year. Thankfully, Dean doesn't have a _Nutcracker_ gig to add to his schedule. It will probably be his first Christmas without one since post-grad. He hasn't actually talked about it with Aidan, though—if Aidan's not doing the _Messiah_ , and Dean isn't doing any _Nutcracker_ , the chances of them seeing each other much between rehearsals over the next two weeks are pretty slim.

They could spend more time together during the day, but—well, that's not how things have been going so far. And Dean is a little afraid that planning more than two days in advance might be as risky as buying an engagement ring at this point. Aidan typically texts him for spontaneous movie dates, or evenings spent with Downton Abbey and a bottle of wine, and never more than two nights in a row. Baby steps, Dean tells himself.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Dean nearly jumps out of his seat when their waiter sneaks up behind him. He's young, but has clearly been in the waiting business for many years. Dean can see the edges of tattoos peeking over the kid's collar and under his sleeves in an obvious effort to observe dress code, and he's been exceedingly patient with their raucous party for the past three hours. He even asked how the concert went, despite the fact that everyone could tell he was fishing for a better tip.

"Don't suppose you'll give me one of these to go?" Jimmy raises a glass of what must be his fifth or sixth beer.

Their waiter smiles kindly, but doesn't bat an eye, or humor him for a moment. "How are we splitting up the checks, then? Is everyone separate?"

"We're together," Dean says, nudging Aidan's shoulder with his own.

"He means they're shagging," Russell adds in a stage whisper. He shoots the waiter a meaningful look and wags his eyebrows and smiles when Aidan chokes on his Merlot. Someone at the opposite end of the table wolf-whistles.

Their waiter, bless him, manages not to laugh. He takes it in stride, jotting notes on his pad of paper before whisking away toward a back room.

"Wait, which one of you is paying?" Stephen leans forward conspiratorially. "This is important for—you know, just to give us the full picture."

"For the last time, Hunter, I'm not telling you who tops," Dean says.

As the table erupts with laughter, Dean sneaks a sideways glance at Aidan, whose face is a solid crimson, and whose shoulders are tense despite his crooked half-smile.

Jed Brophy leans forward from a distant seat. "Wait, hold on—you two are—I didn't know this was a real thing, you two. I thought you were just—so, how long have you been dating?"

"No, we're just—it's not—it's no big deal, Jed." Aidan is going to burn up in front of their eyes. Probably set fire to the tablecloth.

Dean clears his throat. "Can't I buy the guy dinner in peace?"

Luke snorts. "Right. _Buying dinner_ is all you have planned for tonight, I'm sure."

Dean, however, hasn't taken his eyes off of Aidan. He's still staring into his drink, biting his lip and blushing like a schoolgirl in a men's locker room. Dean scowls. He wants to say something, but he's not sure if he wants to chastise Aidan or their friends. Luckily, that is when Jimmy butts in.

"Wait, is he bringing our checks? I want another drink," he whines.

"Buddy, if this waiter weren't cutting you off, I'd do it myself," says Adam.

Whether they've changed the subject out of mercy or extreme drunkenness, Dean can't tell, but he's grateful because shit, really? he'd have let Aidan pay his for his own meal if he'd known it would be so traumatizing. Or if he'd known everyone would need to stick their noses in.

When their checks arrive, Aidan panics. "Are you sure you don't want me to pay?" and "We can split it, really" and "I can leave a tip, or—"

Lenora, who's sitting on Dean's left, makes a point of starting a loud conversation with Jimmy about Shostakovich, sex politics, and Soviet Russia. Dean makes a mental note to thank her later for the distraction while he reassures Aidan and slips the waiter his credit card.

After everyone's payment is accounted for, they bundle up and shuffle outside the restaurant, parting ways—some for the next stage of a long bar crawl, others for dessert, others for home. Dean and Aidan peel off with as little drama as possible. This involves another distraction by Lenora and Adam, who are far more sympathetic to Aidan's discomfort than, say, Stephen and Russ.

They agree to take the train. Aidan is conspicuously quiet for most of the walk to their stop, which is a good four blocks.

When he can't take the awkward silence anymore, Dean bumps Aidan's shoulder and says, "sounded good tonight. Sounded great. Really."

Aidan smiles. "I wish we had actually played Shosty 5. I mean, 9 is good, but. You know."

Dean watches Aidan out of the corner of his eye. He's pulled up the collar of his peacoat against the wind, and the steely yellow streetlights cast a vampiric quality across his sharp features. He takes a deep breath and exhales with a cloud of fog. When they duck down the steps for the underground, Dean slips an arm around Aidan's waist and gives him a brief squeeze. Aidan sneaks a kiss to his temple before they reach the lights and the ticket booths and the crowds of late-night office-workers.

As they're filing onto their car, Dean changes the subject. "This morning I heard that my brother's flying up here for Christmas."

"Really!" Aidan eases into a window seat. "…When?"

"The weekend before, I think."

"Cool." Aidan works his way out of his coat and folds it into his lap. "When's the last time you saw him?"

"Oh, I went home last year at Christmas time. I stayed here over the summer though. Scotland, anyway."

Aidan shifts in his seat, fiddling with a loose thread on one of his coat buttons. "You guys get along?"

"Yeah, yeah, he's always been the cute funny one, so you know, I learned early on not to compete with that."

Aidan bites his lip and narrows his eyes. "So you've _never_ been cute or funny?"

Even when Aidan makes fun of him, Dean gets butterflies. "Just like you've never been able to keep your mouth shut," he counters.

"You wouldn't like me so much if I always kept my mouth shut." Aidan wags his eyebrows.

"Stop," Dean shakes his head. He tries to keep a straight face but Aidan is staring at his lips and grinning and hugging his jacket to his chest and Dean is powerless. Just powerless. "You're horrible," he insists.

"I don't see you arguing."

"I refuse to answer."

"Yeah okay, you'd just incriminate yourself."

In the background, someone clears their throat loudly, and Dean almost jumps out of his seat.

Their car is sparsely populated. A quick scan of their surroundings reveals a middle-aged woman two seats over, a man on her other side with a newspaper spread across his lap, and a guy about their age who looks sound asleep, though Dean can hear his headphones from across the aisle.

Dean can't tell which one is policing their conversation, but he suddenly feels stiff and unbalanced, like a tree that's been _almost_ unrooted, yanked half-way out of the ground and left to teeter in the wind. Maybe that's just the natural motion of the train. He pulls his knee away from Aidan's and takes a deep breath. "Anyway, listen. When my brother gets here, how would you like to come out for dinner with us?"

Aidan looks out the window. "Erm. Where at, d'you think?"

"Probably somewhere nice, you know." Dean starts to unbutton his jacket. He didn't realize till now how warm it's been on the car. "He's gonna want to go to every pub in the city, so we have to impress him for one night at least. Make him act like an adult, you know."

Aidan folds his arms tighter around his coat and his eyes dart around the train car. "Yeah. That's. I dunno, don't you think that's a little … official?"

Dean's hands go still on the last button. "…What do you mean?"

"Ah, y'know, a fancy dinner with your brother?"

Across the aisle, the sleeping passenger's headphones tinkle faintly. Something with a strong dance beat. The man with the newspaper turns the page with an overloud rustle, like when you're falling asleep and even little noises rattle your eardrums.

"It's not fancy," Dean says thickly. "He's my kid brother. We're just going to hang out, dick around, grab a bite."

"Right, right, yeah, of course. But I just … it's Christmas, you know? That should be a family thing, right?"

Dean finishes unbuttoning his coat, but doesn't take it off. "I don't … are you going back to Ireland?"

"Oh, no." Aidan instantly sits up straight. "Not if—I just—no."

"Alright then," Dean says, nodding. He can see the tension in Aidan's knuckles as he clutches his coat, but still just feels bemused. "Well, my brother's gonna be here for a week. He's staying with me, so I mean, you're bound to meet him at some point. One way or another."

Aidan's jaw drops—actually drops, the way it goes in the cliché, the way Dean has never actually seen in real life. "He's staying with _you_?"

"Yes, Aidan," says Dean. He feels breathless on whatever's not clicking between them. He even drops Aidan's full name. For emphasis, maybe. Or to get Aidan's attention. To get him on the same page. "I'm not shoving my brother up in a hotel over the holidays."

"Like, what, on the couch?! What am—it's for a week, you said?" Aidan glances around the train car again, eyelashes fluttering. Presses himself against the back of his seat. It's a subtle motion, but Dean notices.

"Yes, that's why I'm telling you this now." In the back of his mind, Dean registers the train grinding to a halt. He lowers his voice "I don't see what the big deal is, here."

"I dunno," Aidan says, his voice thready, "it's just—are we really at that point?"

Dean can feel his throat ice over. "At _what_ point?" he asks, frigid, his jaw set.

"Nothing!" Aidan's voice jumps an octave. Now he's just grasping at straws. Dean wants him to stop but he's also ready for this. He's been expecting this string of lame excuses. Aidan goes on, "I just didn't know we were—making plans and meeting family and—"

"Well, when do you expect to get to that _point_ , Aidan?" Dean begins rebuttoning his coat, which is difficult with trembling fingers.

"I don't know," Aidan whines.

Dean shakes his head. He can feel his lip curl, which is probably not cute, but he can't help it. "Why am I even surprised?" he says, and glances up when the car doors open. He turns back to Aidan and hisses, "for fuck's sake, I'm tired of walking on eggshells around you, you know?" With that, he stands up and sweeps away, sweeping through the door and onto the platform.

Sensing Aidan on his heels, he forces himself not to look back, but Aidan grabs his elbow halfway to the stairs.

"What was that supposed to mean!?"

After a cursory glance around the under-crowded station, Dean bites out the first answer that comes to mind. "I can't even think the word 'boyfriend' around you or you'll burst into fucking tears."

Aidan's eyes go big. "I won't—that's bullshit and you know it. The whole orchestra knows about us now, I brag about you all the fucking time. Liv is tired of hearing your name."

"Oh, yeah, Liv!" Dean laughs in that mad, unhinged way. "Your roommate, right? The one _I have yet to meet_?"

Aidan struggles to pull his coat on and keep up with Dean as he stomps up the staircase. "Well, no—it's not like that would be uncomfortable at all."

"It would be uncomfortable to have me in your apartment?!"

They burst into the cold night air together, and the breeze stings against Dean's neck. He doesn't really notice, though, through the pounding in his temples. He doesn't break his stride as he turns toward his apartment.

"Well, what am I supposed to tell her?" Aidan cries. "'Oh hi Liv, this is the guy I'm fucking, excuse us while we go to the bedroom. Just ignore any awkward sounds you might hear.'"

Dean almost falls over, he comes to such a sudden stop. "… 'The guy you're fucking.'" He feels as if there is quicksand in his veins. Everything inside him is pulling apart and sinking through his feet. "Wow. _Wow_. Silly me. I'm just _the guy you're fucking_."

"Dean—"

"No wonder you don't want to meet my brother." He smiles, a venomous thing, he can feel the cold air on his teeth and his gums, and he storms off again, not even looking back to see whether Aidan's following him. He wants to scream and shout and throw things and break things, but men and women keep clicking past them on the pavement and Aidan's drawing enough attention already by chasing him across the street.

"That's not what I meant! You don't have a roommate is all, it was only—I'm—you _know_ that's not what I meant."

Dean stops on his doorstep and whirls around."What the fuck do you mean, then?!" His lungs aren't filling up. His lungs aren't getting enough air, they're freezing up, and the look on Aidan's face is just—ripping apart. Every crease around his eyes, and the twist of his lips, and the shadows in his crooked teeth. It all makes Dean feel even colder "Jesus, Aidan, this is what I'm talking about! I'm not asking for your hand in marriage, here. I just want to be able to _count_ on you for something."

"So I'm in your debt, now? Is that why you're dating me?"

Dean throws up his hands and turns back to the lock to his building. "Oh, _now_ we're dating." He wrenches the door open and considers slamming it in Aidan's face, but lets it swing on its hinges.

"That doesn't mean I owe you anything!"

"It's not about _owing_ people," Dean clambers upstairs. "A relationship has give and take. You know, a _relationship_? When two people get to know each other a bit in between the _fucking_?" With rapidly decreasing dexterity, he struggles to open the door to his flat.

Aidan barks humorlessly. "Yes, I'm familiar with relationships, thanks. I've been in one or two of them."

"Could have fooled me." Dean snarls, so low and bitter he can feel the words curdle at the bottom of his throat.

"… What the _fuck_ does that mean?"

When he finally wrestles his door open, Dean turns around to see Aidan standing stiffly in the hall. His shoulders are scrunched up, tense, and his hands are buried in his coat pockets. He looks small. He looks like the corridor could swallow him up, like he's folding up in some kind of vacuum.

And he looks confused, and Dean wants to strangle him for it. "Means you don't need me to get what you want."

"That's—"

"You know what? Forget it." Dean puts up his hands in surrender and backs across the threshold of his flat. "Forget about my brother and Christmas. Forget I said anything."

"I will," Aidan says, but his voice quavers. He seems unable to move. "I will, because I'm not here to do you any favors."

"Yeah, I can see that now. So just forget it. You don't have to be involved. _We_ don't have to be involved."

"Right. I'll see myself out, will I?"

"Yeah, I believe you're familiar with walking out?"

"Wow." Aidan swallows. Dean can see his throat constrict. Can see his hair fall around his face when he shakes his head in disbelief. "Wow," Aidan says again, then lets out a laugh like broken glass. "I'll see you around, then."

Dean doesn't slam the door. He closes it carefully, and it latches with a dull click that tumbles across his wood floor and lies there heavily.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make-up sex?

On Sunday morning, Dean pulls himself from an unmemorable dream and rolls over to check the time and—his alarm clock is gone. Why is his alarm clock gone?

Still slogging through half-consciousness, he pushes himself onto one elbow and scans the room. He blinks slowly as his eyes adjust to the dim pre-dawn lighting. This doesn't make sense. He starts to dig lazily for his phone—because he can check the time there—and flips his pillow over and then catches sight of something bright green out of the corner of his eye. Reluctantly, he pulls the covers off, releasing the lovely warmth trapped under his quilt and dragging himself over to the end table where his alarm clock belongs.

One of Aidan's old threadbare V-necks is draped over the interface. A corner of a _three_ pokes out under the folds of black. Despite himself, Dean's mind wanders to, you know, _how it got there_ , which was in a drunken haze of foreplay—or lack thereof—that resulted in random articles of clothing chucked across all corners of the room.

In a fit of immaturity, Dean seriously considers leaving it there because the thought of touching Aidan's shirt makes his blood run fast. From anger. Definitely anger.

On Sunday afternoon, Dean sets aside his reed-making materials and uncovers his phone to text Adam about their gig on Thursday.

It's the orchestra's annual fundraiser. They fill the rehearsal hall with tables and hire a caterer and set up a blind auction along one wall and charge an exorbitant amount for tickets and every year, one or two chamber groups perform the background music. This year the string quartet has a conflict, so it will just be woodwinds. It's a fairly relaxed commitment—they play easy, audience-friendly music for half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, then gorge themselves on free food and mingle with benefactors. It's usually a no-lose situation, and can even be fun. Now, of course, Dean's insides squirm at the thought of sitting across from Aidan Turner for an entire gig. Plus he'll be expected to stick around after they perform, a thought that nauseates him, for once. The donors love to see the musicians interact. Dean's not totally sure he can be civil around Aidan in just four days time.

He finishes typing the text and sends it off.

_Hey, looking forward to seeing you on Thurs. Do you know what you're wearing?_

He sits down, ready to return to a half-made reed which probably won't end up decent enough to perform on when, almost immediately, he gets a response. He rolls his eyes fondly. Adam is addicted to his mobile. Problematically so.

Dean swipes his phone screen and opens up the conversation and stares at Adam's response.

_Is that a joke_

Dean frowns. Rereads his original text. Doesn't see anything funny about it, or even remotely unclear. While he's processing this confusing exchange and trying to figure out an appropriate response, Adam sends another text.

_No idk what I'm fucking wearing half my dress clothes are still on ur bedroom floor_

Dean's first instinct is to laugh out of utter shock—but it's fleeting. With a spike of nausea and a tripled heart rate, Dean checks the name he's actually texted.

 _Aidan_.

Of course.

He'd just glanced at his list of conversations and begun typing and sent off that _stupid_ text before checking—and fuck Aidan and Adam for having names that look so alike. Fuck them both. Dean feels like throwing up. He eases down onto the window seat and tries to figure out how to patch everything back together without giving away just how much of an idiot he is.

He also really wants to send something back with the same passive-aggressive bite to it, because it's hardly _his_ fault Aidan's been stopping by and using Dean and his flat and _never followed through_.

Dean has to force himself to loosen his grip on the phone before he can reply.

_You want to come over to pick up your things?_

That's good, right? Simple, to-the-point, doesn't dwell on awkward mistaken identities. A perfectly mature way to handle the situation.

Aidan doesn't text him back for fifteen minutes (which Dean spends working on oboe reeds, and definitely doesn't spend worrying so much he starts to hyperventilate. Actually, he's not sure whether he wants Aidan to say _yes_ or _no_.)

When his phone finally vibrates, Dean almost pisses himself from shock.

_Not tonight_

Dean has to suppress the urge to chuck his phone through the window just to watch the glass shatter. He types back, _I have Handel Tuesday night, how about after?_

He blinks at the screen. Waits for maybe twelve seconds.

_Ok_

After forcing himself to set the phone down gently, Dean storms into the kitchen and starts up a full pot of coffee. It's going to be a long night.

On Sunday evening, Dean panics. He spent so much time worrying what people would think about him _dating_ Aidan Turner, that he never considered what they would think if the two of them _broke up_.

Dean dwells on his own stupidity while he paces back and forth down the short hallway between his living room and bedroom. And he panics, because in actuality, most of his friends were Aidan's friends first. It sounds like a petty school-kid problem but if half the orchestra ostracizes him, Dean might end up shunted out of his position, after all. Stranger things have happened, even to long-tenured musicians. He's heard horror stories about "unrequested administrative leave" and "personal circumstances."

He panics about his job. He panics about his friends. He panics about Aidan because—well, is this actually a break-up? Is it just a brief intermission? Were they ever dating, technically, to begin with?

* * *

 

Dean doesn't remember much of Tuesday night's rehearsal. Firstly, he's played Handel's Messiah more times than he can count on one hand. Second, and far more pressingly, he can't stop thinking about Aidan coming over to his place afterwards. They haven't spoken since the catastrophic text message situation on Sunday afternoon, haven't probably been within a mile radius of the other, but somehow the air still feels anxious, thick with immense anticipation, a hyperconscious discomfort that Dean is probably imagining entirely. But he hopes Aidan feels it too.

The only thing saving him, here, is the fact that he hasn't got to see the rest of the quintet, either. They would only ask awkward questions.

When he gets home that night, he really doesn't know what to do with himself. He starts a pot of coffee even though it's after ten, and decides now is the time to print those 32 pages of excerpts for an upcoming audition, and cleans out the cupboards of any expired food, including that tin of biscuits Lenora literally gave him as a gift in May to celebrate the last concert of the season. Unfortunately, his flat is otherwise tidy, so cleaning it up won't help him pass the time.

He thinks about changing into sweatpants, even gets all the way into his bedroom and opens the drawer before reconsidering. How does he want Aidan to find him when he comes over tonight? He should probably look presentable. Aidan will certainly look presentable—he always manages to pull off that conscientiously lazy hipster-lumberjack look, even on days he doesn't try very hard.

So yes, Dean should keep his dress-shirt on instead of changing into sweats and a T-shirt, no matter how much he wants to, because they might have a Serious Conversation. They might manage an official apology or—well, Dean's not going to dwell on the circumstances or possibilities of a break-up.

Even though that might be better in the long run.

He's too old for this. Playing games and spinning in circles and holding Aidan's hand while he decides if he's ready for a grown-up relationship. That's what Dean tells himself; that's the conscious part of Dean's mind saying _he's not worth it_ when another, larger part of Dean just wants to pull Aidan down on his couch and kiss him and laugh at old YouTube videos of Carlos Kleiber.

Dean is leaning against the back of the couch, gazing into space and _not_ imagining his fingers in Aidan's hair when someone raps on his door. It sounds extra-loud in his silent flat.

Dean opens the door to find Aidan Turner, looking—well, not put together at all. Shiny curls fall around his face, out of the crooked bun tied at the back of his head. His jeans look like they've been washed too many times (maybe with bleach, and not in a fashionable way), his hoodie is stained, and his hands are stuffed in the pockets of an old denim jacket.

He presses his lips into a thin smile when Dean opens the door.

All Dean can say is, "how did you get in?"

Aidan's eyelids flicker. "One of your neighbors was leaving. Should probably be more careful about that. Guess I don't look like a threat."

"Not to them, anyway," Dean says in this weirdly bitter tone, and he has no idea why. His face heats up as he steps back so Aidan can come inside.

Aidan steps past him and scans the living room. Cranes his neck for a better view of the kitchen. Dean feels suddenly conscious of everything in his flat, from the shoes in the hall to the coffee mugs scattered in his sink.

Dean's heart pumps hotter. "You couldn't have texted?"

When Aidan turns to look at him, it's slow, and that look is carved in his face, the bird of prey, and Dean can never tell if it's just the severe eyebrows or if Aidan is actually plotting a violent crime.

Aidan doesn't answer. He only says, "Where's my stuff?"

"Your … it's in the bedroom," Dean breathes. "I guess. Wherever you left it."

"You didn't—" Aidan starts, then cuts himself off with a laugh.

"What?"

Aidan shakes his head.

" _What?_ " Yes, maybe Dean should have gotten Aidan's things ready. But maybe he tried to fold up a few shirts and stopped half-way through because they still smelled like Aidan and drove Dean crazy. The memory makes his heart pound. "What did you come over for? To laugh at me?"

Aidan kisses him.

Dean doesn't even have time to close his eyes, and the air he sucks in through his nose is cold, but Aidan's lips are warm. He pulls back. Just an inch. "What are you doing?"

Aidan kisses him again. Weirdly, Dean's first thought is that Aidan's lips are chapped, which never happens because usually they're coated in a layer of chapstick. Dean's second thought is to wonder whether he really has the right to judge how Aidan Turner's lips _usually_ feel.

He doesn't have anymore thoughts, because at that point Aidan's hand slips under the back of his shirt and his fingers are cold and the bare skin-on-skin contact short-circuits Dean's system. Electricity surges up and down his spine. Jump starts his heart. Throws it into overdrive. He's skidding out of control.

"Don't," Dean breathes. "Don't do this."

"Coward."

So Dean kisses him back, even though he's not sure whether that makes him more or less of a coward.

His hands slide up Aidan's chest, around his neck, into his hair. He pulls the ponytail loose. Aidan's lips part and Dean answers with a gasp and tongues and teeth clacking. He clutches at Aidan's jacket. Yanks it off his shoulders.

Dean doesn't realize they're headed for the bedroom (and he's not sure whether it's his doing or Aidan's) until his shoulder blade collides with the door frame. His shirt is unbuttoned and half-way off before they cross the threshold.

Aidan's pants are the hardest thing to remove, since they fit so tight around his thighs and he has to kick off his old Nikes first. Once they're gone, Dean shoves him into the bed. The mattress takes him out at the knees and he falls backward.

Dean grabs a condom from the top of the nearest drawer.

"Had that handy, didn't you?"

"Shut up." He rips the foil open.

"You were all ready for me?"

"Shut up." Rolls the condom on.

"What else do—oh _god_."

Dean thrusts in, hard, drawing a strangled cry from the back of Aidan's throat. He could be gentler, but that's not what either of them wants. It's rough and too dry but they fuck through the tension, and Dean's toes curl into the rug and he ignores the way the bed frame knocks against the wall and the way Aidan's shouting, these coarse aborted cries that are probably more from pain than pleasure but he wraps his arms around Dean and takes it.

Dean doesn't get Aidan's shirt all the way off. It's just pushed up around his arms so they can claw at each others' ribs, and when Dean curls forward he has to tug at Aidan's collar to reach his neck. Wraps his lips around the veins and cords of muscle and drags his teeth against slick skin. Distantly, he notices Aidan whining, his fingertips bruising the dip of Dean's spine and the back of his neck.

Aidan squirms and pulls away from Dean's teeth. Like sparks popping, Dean feels a sharp tug at the hair on the back of his head and his hips stutter and he comes suddenly, whimpering into the curve of Aidan's neck.

He rides it out in a dizzy fog. When he raises his head, he can see the purple mark blossoming over Aidan's collar.

The blood pulsing through his limbs cools and hardens. His eyes dart frantically to Aidan's, which are nothing but black rimmed by white. If it's possible, they grow even darker as he glowers back at Dean.

"Don't you dare."

"Shit," Dean says, panting.

"Dean— _please_ —"

Dean grabs the base of the condom and pulls out sharply. Aidan winces and shouts. "You _bastard_."

Dean stumbles back, staring, his lips numb.

Aidan is still sprawled on his bed, knees splayed, shirt rucked up under his arms. It would be comical if Dean's heart weren't broken. Aidan's lips and his eyes are shining and that _stupid_ mark throbs against his skin and against his white T-shirt and his cock lays heavily across his stomach, rising and falling as his chest heaves. He looks pathetic and desperate and easy and all the other things Dean feels like.

"Bastard," Aidan whispers it again.

"Dammit, Aidan."

" _What?_ "

"Why did you come here?"

"Not so you could leave me hanging, that's for sure."

"So you _were_ trying to get laid?"

"You didn't seem to want to stop me!"

With a groan of undiluted frustration, Dean storms into his bathroom. He disposes of the condom there and wipes himself down with a towel. "You're pathetic."

"I _came_ here to get my _stuff_ , you prick."

"Bullshit. You wanted to get off."

"I wanted to see you!"

"Yeah, I'll bet," Dean leans over the bathroom sink so he can't see Aidan, not even in the mirror. Stares at the stained porcelain. "You got what you wanted, now get your stuff and get out."

"Bastard."

Dean's head snaps up. " _Who's_ the bastard, here?" Every inch of his skin burning, powered by blind rage, he marches across his bedroom and begins to snatch up random articles of clothing.

Aidan's hopping on one foot and as he works into his jeans. Before he can fasten them, Dean stuffs all the gathered clothing into Aidan's arms and pushes him backwards out of the bedroom.

Aidan stumbles. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you out!" For emphasis, Dean picks up Aidan's shoes and uses them to shove him toward the door. "All you can think about is sex."

"And all you can think about is _yourself!_ "

Dean gapes at him for one moment of crushed ice. "I want you _out_ ," he manages in a hoarse whisper.

"Bastard."

This time, Dean does slam the door in his face, and he doesn't regret it, even when the ceiling rattles, even when his neighbor raps sharply on their shared wall, even as heat blooms behind his eyes and behind his throat.

When he turns around, he sees Aidan's jacket lying in a rumpled heap on the floor. His heart sinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then aidan goes home and cries himself to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What stage of depression is this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry ... this section would have most properly occurred at the end of the last chapter. so instead it goes by itself. and there will be one more.

"What shall we play next?"

"Five Easy Dances," Aidan says instantly.

Dean raises both eyebrows and looks around the circle, feeling the silence between his temples.

"Um—is that alright, Dean?" Lenora asks hesitantly.

"Sure. Why wouldn't it be?"

She raises an eyebrow. Her reply is cool but professional. "You just don't look to happy about Aidan's suggestion."

"Shocking." Aidan says it under his breath, but there is little doubt that everyone in the circle heard him.

"Nope," Dean says shortly. "Sounds fine. Let's do it." He pulls up the music and flips the cover page open on his stand. He might be imagining when Adam and Graham exchange a meaningful glance.

Dean gets the ball rolling with a tuning note, which also erases any further need for awkward conversation.

The night has been stiff, like paper left out in the rain and then dried up again in a crinkly sheaf. The crowd for the annual fundraiser—sizeable and, hopefully, profitable—seems to press in closer than normal. Though he has never been called tall, Dean feels especially dwarfed by the guests milling in their gaudy formalwear; by the wait staff cutting paths through the crowd with their silver trays; and by the hollow black of Aidan's scowl. The atmosphere isn't conducive to fine oboe playing. Fortunately the "audience" is far too preoccupied—and tipsy—to notice fleeting moments of questionable intonation.

In fact, when all is said and done, their guests are as complimentary as ever. As soon as he gets us oboe in its case and returns from the locker room, the overdressed women begin to shower Dean with praise.

"Marvelous!"

"Fantastic, as always!"

"We really can't thank you enough!"

"You are such a treasure," one says sweetly as she adjusts her ugly yellow broach. "We're lucky to have you, Dean."

They love to speak with the musicians on a first-name basis. It makes them feel included, involved. Like they are actually a part of the musical product. That, and the gobs of money they throw at the orchestra just to see their name under the "benefactor" list in the programs.

"Oh, thanks, Betty," he responds with a woodcarved smile. "To be honest, _we're_ just as lucky to have _you_!"

She titters at him in that darling, sappy way that is somehow both genuine and affected. Then Dean notices her eyes skate over his shoulder. "Aidan, dear! Aren't you going to eat anything?"

Dean whirls and makes eye contact with Aidan. Dean's stomach clenches. They both realize, too late, that they've been roped into the same mingling group of rich, influential people, and neither of them can escape or make a scene. Betty doesn't notice Dean choke on his water or the way Aidan's face loses all color. She waves him over and pulls him into a massive hug, which is impressive given she barely comes up to his chin.

"Look at you, you clean up so well! Doesn't he look handsome?"

He doesn't, Dean thinks. He looks like he hasn't showered or shaved since Dean last saw him, and his collar barely hides the purple edges of the hickey Dean left the other night. Dean can feel his ears heat up at the sight. Heart pounding, he wonders if everyone else can see it too, or if he's just paranoid.

Betty doesn't seem to notice. She lays her hand on Aidan's arm and asks, "Haven't you got a drink, then?"

"Oh, they brought water for us musicians," Aidan says, his eyes fixed intensely on Betty and definitely not on Dean.

"What? They don't let you have any of the good drinks?!"

"Not for free." Aidan shakes his head regretfully.

Dean, who desperately doesn't want to drink any alcohol if he can help it, does his best to drift into the background.

"That's just nonsense, you're the stars of the show!" As usual, Betty can't be deterred. "Here, come here, someone get a glass, that's—yes, there we go. Here, have some from our bottle."

"No no no, you paid for that, I couldn't—"

"Shush, it's on me. It's the least I can do."

"Thank you, really," Aidan mumbles, taking the wine glass. Dean can see his cheeks burning.

"No, thank _you_!" Betty smiles. "Thank you for the lovely music tonight. And every night! Both of you!" She turns her powdered grin on Dean. "Not getting drinks for you folks, nonsense, that's just nonsense."

"You're a doll, Betty."

Thankfully, she doesn't keep her attention on Dean. He would escape, but her husband and the rest of their posse have tightened around his shoulders. "You know, Aidan, we missed you last year," she says "How was France? Or—France, wasn't it?"

"Italy."

"Italy, of course! How did you like it there?"

"It was lovely, really lovely. Beautiful places, nice people. It was fun."

"Well, it's good to have you back. Been home a few months now, haven't you?"

"A few."

Betty looks around with shifty eyes. "So did you bring a date tonight?"

The air leaves Dean's chest.

"I—here?" Aidan sounds as breathless as Dean feels.

"Sure! Haven't you found yourself a good young lady, yet?"

His eyes go round. "Oh, that's—not yet. Not yet, no, I haven't."

"What a shame! They working you too hard here?'

Aidan stuffs his empty hand in his pocket and ducks his head, but Dean still notices the blush forming high on his cheeks-gathering around the rims of his eyes. Things Dean _shouldn't_ notice.

When Aidan answers, his voice sounds raw. "Ah, Betty, you know you're the only girl I want to dance with."

"Stop it, you," Betty teases, apparently unable to read the feeble emptiness in his composure. She plows on. And it's not unkind, either, which makes it worse. "Don't you want to find yourself a pretty young woman? Find a house and settle down?"

"… That sounds nice." Aidan's voice breaks and Dean realizes his jaw is clenched painfully tight.

"Of course it does. Any girl would be lucky to have you."

"Thanks," he whispers.

Dean can't actually swallow. His throat is closing off. And that, of course, is when Betty catches sight of a group of old friends. "My goodness, look who the cat dragged in!" Her voice leaps about three octaves and she dissolves into the throng of people and her little group trickles away, leaving only Aidan and Dean, standing awkwardly at arm's length.

Slowly, Aidan looks up from his shoes, scratching at the beard he's got coming in. "I better get out of here."

"Aidan."

His eyes snap up, meet Dean's for a split second, and then dart away into the crowd.

"I brought your jacket," Dean says.

Aidan lets out a huff of laughter.

"It's in the locker room." But when Dean steps toward the back exit, Aidan makes no move to follow. So he goes alone. Slips through the doors and takes the stairs two at a time and on the way back, bumps into Adam.

"Looking for something?" Adam is bubbly and grinning. Probably mooched a couple drinks off of generous donors.

"Have you seen Aidan?"

The first thing Adam does is laugh. When he realizes Dean is serious, he clears his throat. "He's-I saw him go out to the loading dock."

Which is where Dean finds him, pacing up and down a concrete ramp in the December night, eyes and nose red from the cold. He turns, sees Dean, and stops in his tracks.

"Got your jacket," Dean says. What else can he say?

Aidan plucks a cigarette from between his lips and exhales a cloud of smoke and fog. "Thanks."

"Yeah." Neither of them makes a move to close the distance between them. "I didn't know you smoked."

Aidan shrugs and, in a gracefully practiced move, flicks the ash off the tip of his cigarette. "Bummed it off a caterer. I haven't had one since I was eighteen."

Dean grimaces. "I never have."

"I figured."

 _What's that supposed to mean?_ , Dean thinks, but he really doesn't have the energy anymore. Instead he takes a deep breath and says, "listen. About other night."

"It's fine," Aidan says, rocking back on his heels. "I shouldn't have come."

"Well, I know we didn't get to talk—"

"Because you kicked me out."

Dean sighs. "Yeah. Well. Do you remember the first time we slept together?"

Aidan blows out a stream of smoke, which Dean takes as affirmation.

"You told me not to leave marks," Dean goes on. "And the other night I did. I got carried away and you—well, all I could think of was you telling me not to. That first night. And I remember wondering, 'why would he say that?'"

Aidan stares at him, face unreadable.

"And I figured it out," Dean says. "You don't want marks because—someone else might see them. Whoever else gets to take off your shirt."

All Aidan does is take another drag.

Dean shuffles forward. He can feel his neck heating up because it's infuriating, Aidan is infuriating, the way he can stand there in nothing but his shirtsleeves like the cold doesn't affect him, the way the hair falls out of his ponytail just right. The effortless angle of his slouch. Dean presses the old denim jacket into Aidan's arms. "I deserve to be more than some guy you're fucking."

Aidan doesn't look up from the jacket. Letting the cigarette dangle from his bottom lip, he fusses with a fraying seam at the cuff.

And even though it just makes the ache in his heart burrow deeper, Dean leaves him there and turns to go. When Dean's hand is on the doorknob, Aidan finally speaks.

"Dean?" His voice is soft, but amplified by the hard angles of brick and concrete in the loading dock. Dean turns. "I don't want anyone else to see it. Just so you know." With that, Aidan shrugs into the jacket, stamps out his cigarette, and heads for the street corner.


	4. Chapter 4

As the week passes, and then the weekend, the days and nights blur together, the sky folds over the tops of tall buildings, and the bleak winds brush away the last leaves left over from November. Dean rehearses Handel. One morning, he does a Google search of the venues in town giving productions of the _Nutcracker_ in the next two weeks. There are three, but one is through a student group at a university. He practices scales and arpeggios and forgets what else he's supposed to be doing. Nothing, really. He could go Christmas shopping, but he might as well wait for his brother to arrive and spend that time together.

Speaking of which, Brett will arrive on Thursday, exactly a week after the fundraiser, and Dean goes the week without seeing or hearing from Aidan Turner, or most of his colleagues, to be precise. He sees Alice at rehearsals. She's peppy, she's driven by holiday spirit, and he tries not to get her down.

Really, he can't justify this weird bout of depression. It's probably the weather, or the stress of a big performance, or the frustration of having to pick up his stupid brother at 9 pm after a long day of rehearsals with and without the choruses. It's actually 9:22 when he finally gets his things packed up and out the door into the crisp breeze.

He checks his phone. Three missed calls. He rolls his eyes and dials Brett's number.

"Where are you?" Brett says as soon as he picks up.

"I'm leaving rehearsal now."

"… So when are you gonna get _here_?"

Dean sighs. "I dunno, depends on traffic, okay?"

"My plane landed half an hour ago, Dean. You couldn't have left rehearsal early or something?"

Dean pulls out his keys and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Well—it's my _job_ , Brett."

"You _do_ realize how long I've been on airplanes, right?"

After shoving his oboe in the backseat, Dean starts the engine and takes a deep breath. He really shouldn't have to put up with this assault right now. It's late. "Yeah, and I'm coming."

"Hurry up, man. I already got through customs, I'm literally sitting next to a dude brushing his teeth in a water fountain. Get a move on."

"Look, I had to borrow a friend's car _and_ drive through London traffic today," Dean says as he pulls out onto a busy two-way drive. "I paid for parking and everything so I could come get you as _soon_ as possible. I'll be there in a bit, alright?"

He can hear Brett groan on the other line. "Can you think about someone other than yourself for a change?"

Dean freezes. He nearly drops the phone—actually does fumble it for a second and has to check to make sure he hasn't hit the touch screen and accidentally hung up on his brother. Aidan's words echo in his mind.

_All you can think about is yourself._

Dean has to grip the wheel tightly with his free hand or else he might swerve into oncoming traffic.

"… Deanoooo."

"I'm here."

"Earth to Dean."

"Yeah, yes, I'm listening." That's a lie. He's thinking about last week—about all the things Aidan said. _I brag about you all the time_ , and _I came to see you_ , and _I don't want anyone else to see it_. It's like he's hearing Aidan say it all for the first time.

"… or else I'm going to hang up on you."

"Brett, listen—"

"I _am_ listening, _you're_ the one—"

"Is there a, I dunno, something like a flower shop in the airport?"

"…What?"

"Brett, seriously. I need you to buy me flowers."

"I already got you a Christmas present."

" _Brett!_ "

"Okay, yeah, I'm going, there's a place right over there. What kind of flowers am I looking for?"

"Doesn't matter."

"But they need to look good?"

"Yes, for fuck's sake, buy me a bouquet that _looks good_. I'll pay you back, I promise."

"Too right you will."

" _Good-bye_ , Brett."

When Dean hangs up, he realizes he's actually quite close to the airport. And fifteen minutes later—fifteen long, antsy minutes—when he pulls up to the terminal, he practically dives out of the car and tackles his brother in a hug.

"I missed you too, but I can barely stand up, Deano."

"Sorry," he says. Backs up and gets a good look at his little brother. And, more importantly, at the half-dozen flowers resting on top of his suitcase. It's actually a pretty hideous pastel arrangement of wildflowers mixed with carnations, which makes no sense to Dean. He's elated.

"Thanks for these," he says, grabbing the bouquet and laying it gently across his oboe case.

Brett tosses his luggage in the boot and shuts it a little violently. "So where's the toy boy?"

"Ha. We're not really … I don't know." Dean says, avoiding his brother's eyes and sliding into the driver's side. Actually, Dean _thinks_ he knows where Aidan is tonight, and hopes his guess is right.

"You don't know?"

"Things aren't exactly working out."

"Are you kidding?" Brett says, buckling into his seat. "Last time I called you couldn't stop talking about him."

"Well, he's not here now."

"Wow. Fuck him."

Dean bristles. "It's fine."

"You okay?" Brett is cute, actually. This is not the first time he's offered to console Dean after a break-up. "Do I need to track this guy down?" It's also not the first time he's offered to hit one of Dean's exes. "What was his name again? Arthur?"

Dean rolls his eyes fondly and pulls out of the terminal. "No. Really, it's not a big deal."

"How big is he? Can I take him?"

"Oh my god, Brett, you don't need to defend my honor or anything."

"Too late, I already hate him."

Dean chuckles despite himself. For the next ten or fifteen minutes, he lets his brother weave a truly spectacular tale about a kid in a Zelda costume that sat behind him on a connecting flight. Dean doesn't get all the specifics. And they're only a kilometer or two from the orchestra hall when Dean finally divulges to Brett that they're taking a little detour.

"We're going to a _concert?!_ "

"No, Brett, the concert's over."

"Come _on_. Were you not listening to how long I've been on a plane?"

"Brett—"

"Were you not listening to the part where _not everything's about you?_ "

"This _isn't_ about me," Dean says firmly. _It never was._ He glances down the street, and from here they can already see the concert hall. It's a few blocks away. "I just have a quick stop to make. You can stay in the car, even. Sleep if you want."

Brett stares at him. Blinks. "I'm coming with you. This is gonna be good."

Dean pulls into a narrow alley next to the hall—not _his_ hall, of course—but rather the hall he found on Google where the _Nutcracker_ is playing all weekend. Just the concert suite, no dancers. Anyway, he parks in an alley, which is absolutely illegal, but he forces the ramifications out of his mind because it's past ten and god, all the lights are on, but what if the musicians have left?

Snatching the flowers out of the backseat, Dean locks up the car and takes a look at his surroundings. Men and women in black attire and overcoats trickle out of a side door under a bright red exit sign. He sees instrument bags, and even a couple massive fiberglass cello cases, among them.

"That must be a stage door," he says.

Brett shrugs. "Hell if I know. Lead the way."

Dean does.

Once he gets inside, his ears and the tip of his nose sting from the sudden blast of warm air. He hadn't actually noticed how cold it was outside.

A narrow corridor greets them. The floor looks like it was tiled in the 1960s, and old-fashioned iron radiators creak under the window sills. Following the breadcrumb trail of escaping musicians, Dean reaches another door with "STAGE" stenciled in peeling black paint.

"How long is this going to take?" Brett grumbles. Dean ignores him.

The backstage area is poorly lit, and it takes a moment for Dean's eyes to adjust. Even in the dim lighting, even thirty paces away, even through a crowd of musicians all dressed in black, Dean's eyes immediately find Aidan Turner. He's listening intently to a trumpet player's animated story, nodding and biting his lip the way he does. He throws his head back and laughs, and Dean realizes he's smiling along with him.

Stuffing one shaking hand into his coat pocket, Dean drifts to the side, closer to Aidan's line of vision. He glances at a nearby table and finds Aidan's horn case, the one with the little Irish flag luggage tag, and when he looks up again, Aidan is closing in.

Their eyes meet. Dean grips the flowers so tightly that the stems probably won't ever be straight again. Aidan stops in front of him. Doesn't say anything, just gazes at Dean, eyes roaming over the bouquet, the wild hair, and finally landing on Dean's face.

"These are for you," Dean breathes.

Aidan's lips part. He does a little shake of his head, as if to wake himself up from a dream.

Dean wishes he would say something, because his chest is about to burn inside-out. "You don't have to take them, but—they're for you."

Aidan takes a shaky breath. "I don't—let me just put my horn away." He unzips his case where it sits between them and begins to unscrew the bell of his instrument.

"Aidan, I just—I wanted to say I'm sorry."

Aidan stops moving. "Jesus, you haven't got anything to apologize for."

"I _do_ , though." Dean wraps both hands around the bouquet, just for something to do, just to keep him attached to the real world. "I shouldn't have kicked you out last week. I'm sorry I did, I just—I'm sorry. I should have listened. I shouldn't have overreacted. I should have done better. … I want to do better."

Dean didn't exactly have a speech prepared, and he kind of wants to bash his head through a window, but it's out. He spoke, and now all he can do is listen. Which he wants to do. Badly.

With shaking hands, Aidan slides his bell into the case, then goes still. "I'm the one who fucked up," he whispers, running his hands over the gentle metal curve of his horn, and Dean can feel something snap in the center of his chest. "I fucked up. I heard 'brother' and 'dinner' and 'holidays' and it all felt _real_ all of a sudden."

"Are you saying it wasn't real before?" Dean asks, thinking it's a risk, it's a risk, and he's going to tip right over this cliff.

Luckily, Aidan pulls him back. "No. _God_ , no. I'm just … I got scared and let that get a hold of me. Like a fight or flight thing."

"I know what you mean."

Aidan looks up, startled. "You do?"

"God, Aidan," Dean laughs gently. "I'm pretty scared right now. I'm _really_ scared."

Shaking his head, Aidan lays his horn in the case and closes it up. Zips it shut. Takes a deep breath. "You don't … you shouldn't be scared. I'm the one who fucked up. I'm sorry."

"We both fucked up."

"I just _reacted_ , you know?" Aidan croaks. "Without thinking about what I could _lose_."

Dean sucks in a breath and steps around the table, because this is it, he thinks, as he presses the flowers into Aidan's shaking hands, this is it, he doesn't want them back, he wants this to work. "What are you scared of?"

Aidan wraps one hand around the bouquet. Their fingers brush together and Dean doesn't let go. Not yet. After clearing his throat, Aidan says, "I thought I was scared to meet your family, and spend holidays together, and _be_ with you, but now … I think I'm way more scared not to."

Dean smiles and finally, finally, Aidan looks up to meet his eyes. And he smiles too. "What are _you_ scared of?" Aidan asks.

"I'm scared you're gonna throw these flowers back in my face."

Aidan chuckles, and Dean notices his grip on the bouquet tighten. Dean lets go.

"So you missed me?" Aidan teases, not unkindly.

"Little bit," Dean says, grinning.

"I missed you too."

Dean forces himself to step back. He doesn't _want_ to put any more space between them, of course. He kind of _wants_ to push Aidan up against the nearest wall and-well-almost the whole orchestra has departed by now, and janitors are sweeping up the stage and managers are locking up doors. This isn't the time or place.

"Where did you find a bouquet like this, anyway?" Aidan asks, one eyebrow cocked.

Dean snorts. "My brother picked them up. They're ugly, it's okay, you can say so."

"No!" Aidan says, a little too fast. "No, no, they're not ugly." He bites his lip. "I love them."

"I'm glad," Dean says, fairly certain the joy in his chest is about to bubble over. His eyes feel hot. Then it occurs to him that they're the last people left backstage, aside from a custodian and— "Speaking of my brother, we should, er, probably move along. You know, before he drives off without me."

Aidan's eyes widen and dart over Dean's shoulder. "Is he the one in the doorway? … Looking at me like he's going to rip all my limbs off?"

"Oh, don't worry about him," Dean waves his hand nonchalantly. "Although, just warning you—he might call you Arthur for a few days."

"What—why Arthur?"

But that's when Brett throws himself in their midst, laying his arm across Dean's shoulders. "So, is this the guy?"

"The guy?" Aidan says blankly. He looks like he wants to smile, but isn't sure if he's supposed to.

"The one Deano's been talking about non-stop."

Instantly, Dean burns up from his neck to his ears. It's like steam escaping when he hisses, "Oh my god, Brett, _please_ —"

Aidan smiles and winks. "He talked about me, did he?"

"Oh, yeah. You're shorter than I pictured."

At that, Dean feels his face heat up for a whole other reason. He gives his brother a good shove to the shoulder. "Stop it, prick."

"What?" Brett says innocently. He holds a hand out to Aidan, who hesitates for a split second, but takes it when Dean gives him a little nod. "It was nice meeting you, Arthur."

Aidan opens his mouth, looking beyond flabbergasted, but Brett cuts him off, rounding on Dean. "Can we really go, now? I'm about to pass out."

Dean sighs. " _Yes_ , we can go. Here, take the keys." Mouthing a quick _sorry_ to Aidan, he drifts after his brother. He hesitates after just a few steps.

"Call me?"

Aidan nods vigorously. "'Course I will. If you don't beat me to it."

Dean smiles. Wrings his hands. He knows he has to go after Brett, but he's stuck in place, and so is Aidan. Neither of them can move. Their roots are tangled beneath the floorboards.

His pulse beats against his throat. " _Fuck it_ ," he breathes. Before he can stop himself he surges forward and Aidan meets him half-way and their lips crash together. Dean swallows the moan that passes between them.

The moment is fleeting, but it's like striking a match. "Let's make a date," he says, still close enough that their lips catch.

Aidan's eyes flick to Brett for a split second. "When?"

"How about tomorrow?" Dean allows.

"Tomorrow night," Aidan agrees, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to Dean's. "My place."

The fire spreads to Dean's toes, to his lungs, to his navel. Behind his eyes. "Sounds like a plan."

"Good."

"And Aidan?"

His eyes flutter open.

"Thank you," Dean whispers.

Aidan kisses him again, hard, his hands clutched in the front of Dean's coat. Dean can feel the smile under his lips.

"I'm leaving without you!" Brett shouts from the doorway.

Aidan and Dean laugh into each other's mouths. As he tears himself away, Dean gives Aidan's hand a little squeeze. "Tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i should be writing a 10-page paper on Baroque performance practice, but who the hell wants to do that when Aidan Turner and Dean O'Gorman could be making up and making out.
> 
> hope you enjoyed :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Double Stop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470316) by [Lionsmane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionsmane/pseuds/Lionsmane)




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